Strobe Lights
by StarMellon
Summary: Helping Sherlock out on cases is something Molly had always done, though before that had been from the safety of her morgue. Sherlolly. S3. Oneshot


Un-beta'd, so all mistakes are mine. Also my first attempt to write (and finish writing) something more sexual, so hopefully it didn't go too badly.

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><p>"Sherlock," Molly breathes, and feels annoyance at the fact that she can, in fact, see her own breath. "It's <em>freezing!<em> And why do you have me wearing these ridiculous clothes?"

The Detective huffs in annoyance while they walk down the street of the West End. It's late, cold, looking like it's about to storm and Sherlock _doesn't_ expect her to question it? Especially since he showed up at her flat, informing her of a case and carrying actual _clothes_ for her to wear. A tight skirt that ends just above her knees, and long-sleeved, low cut top with too many sparkles on it, and heels that still don't help her much. Apparently none of her clothes would have been good enough for this particular adventure. Molly nearly threw the bag at him when he told her that.

"The case, Molly," Sherlock reminds her, turning a corner. His pace is so quick she's having a hard time keeping up with him. "It requires a bit more of a... hands on approach. Surveillance, as a matter of fact. According to the client, he frequents a specific club, which is where we are currently headed."

Oh.

_Great._

And there Sherlock is, in his normal attire with _many layers_. And she's stuck in a skirt.

Molly seethes in silence for a few more moments before she felt a weight on her shoulders and a sudden warmth. Sherlock had slowed his pace to walk next to her, and wrapped her in his Belstaff.

It trails down to nearly her ankles, but it was so _warm_ (and smells like his cologne, a thought which she hurriedly pushes to the back of her mind. Molly certainly doesn't need something like that distracting her _now_, not when his shirt is just a little too tight and shows off his nearly acquired muscles in such a nice way... she was certainly getting off topic now). She tries to hide her smile in the collar and mutters a "thanks".

Sherlock doesn't say anything, but Molly swears she sees him smiling too.

Of course, it just had to decide to start raining then.

"_Fuck."_

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><p>Before his fall, Molly would've never considered going out to help Sherlock with cases. Helping him in the safety of her morgue, sure, that was no problem. Sherlock didn't even take on private cases until John Watson came around – all of his work was assisting Greg Lestrade. It was a wonder there was enough work to keep the Consulting Detective busy, though Molly remembers quite a few instances when the DI would complain about him taking on even relatively menial crimes and then insulting the majority of the task force.<p>

After, when Sherlock came back from the dead and texted her to meet him at his flat, the last thing Molly would've guessed he wanted from her was to assist him on cases. The worst (or best, depending how one looked at it) part was that she found she actually _enjoyed _working with him outside of the lab, once she calmed herself down enough to consider the situation fully. An easy familiarity had fallen between them by the time they had gone to visit his train friend (or perhaps acquaintance would've been a better term). She could joke with him, and if Molly didn't know better it almost seemed like Sherlock was purposefully trying to make her _laugh_. Something he had never done before, at least by his own intentions.

Her engagement ring felt like lead on her finger after that, a constant reminder that she has most definitely _moved on_. No ifs, ands, or buts, Molly Hooper was over Sherlock Holmes and nothing was about to change that. Even if she found herself loving going on cases with him. Especially if he seemed just a little bit sad when he pressed his lips to her cheek and wished her happiness.

(She wasn't engaged anymore though, so Molly could at least admit to herself that she was actually _not_ over the Consulting Detective).

And now John was married to Mary Morstan (who was really sweet and funny and she could definitely see what John saw in her), playing doctor at a clinic, and not always available to go on cases with Sherlock. Mary had confided in her that the two actually had an agreement – John would not assist Sherlock on any case that was less than an eight (Molly had a theory that the scale was rather arbitrary, but it seemed to work for the two men). This left a slew of cases that Sherlock could take, but his normal assistant couldn't justify taking time off to help with. So, Molly decided to lend her hand.

She was happy to help, of course. Most of the cases were rather straightforward, and could be done in a couple of hours after she was finished her shift. Very rarely did cases with such a low rating cause corpses to appear at her morgue, anyway. They also fell within Molly's 'comfort zone', just enough mystery with very little chance of bullets or illegal actions.

Of course, there was always one or two, she supposed.

Which lead her to her current predicament.

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><p>The music's loud, and the lights are giving her a headache, but Molly's been to worse places.<p>

Sherlock's standing with his back to a wall, and she can see him scanning the room. She had given him his Belstaff back once they entered ("It's too hot in here, and the coat is soaked, anyway"), and he had donned it again. How Sherlock could manage was beyond her.

"There," She could barely hear his voice above the music, "He's near the bar."

Molly turns in the direction Sherlock's looking. It's hard to make out, but there's a man – he could be about fifty, but it's hard to tell such a thing with the distance and light level.

What Molly can tell is that he's looking directly towards them.

_Shit._

Sherlock seems to notice, but looks relatively unconcerned. Should he be unconcerned? He has an international reputation, won't he be recognized?

Molly gulps audibly, before stepping in front of Sherlock. With her heels she comes up to his nose, and it's enough height to help her with what she's about to do. She can see Sherlock's eyes, questioning, before she leans into him.

Her hand runs up his arm, and she feels, rather than sees, his reaction. Sherlock's muscles are pulled taut, a spring storing energy, ready to be released. "Sherlock..." she breathes in his ear, the low coil in her belly not all from nervousness of their situation.

"Molly." He groans, the syllables elongated and thick on his tongue. Molly shivers in response to his voice, still feeling the eyes of the suspect on them from the far corner of the club.

They aren't leaving, and Sherlock can't afford for them to see his face.

Both of her hands drag up his arms, a light touch over the rough, wet fabric of his Belstaff. Carefully cradling his head in her palms, Molly strokes the rough stubble on his cheeks before leaning in and slowly, deliberately, pressing her mouth to his.

Sherlock's reaction is immediate and powerful. He reverses their positions, pressing her back against the wall. Somewhere in the still rational and logical part of Molly's brain she is grateful for this; no longer is Sherlock, with his 'international reputation', visible to the people he is tracking. She didn't have such a reputation, and a non-descript pathologist from Bart's is much less likely to be recognized then...

And that's when the logical part of Molly's brain fizzes to a halt thanks to Sherlock's full lips and blunt teeth now trailing down her neck. She lets out a sharp gasp as he nips and sucks her sensitive skin. The feeling in her belly coiling and rippling into something darker, deeper, and wanting.

Molly can't seem to catch her breath, and her eyelids flutter shut at the sensations Sherlock was wrecking from her body. She brings her hands up to his hair, running warm fingers through those soft, springy curls, still damp from the sudden downpour.

"Look at me, Molly." Sherlock nearly growls, his voice registering deep next to her ear. His long, clever fingers trail down her neck and check, stopping briefly to caress her left breast through the thin fabric of her shirt. "Open your eyes."

Forcing her eyelids open is a struggle, but she somehow manages. The look in Sherlock's eyes is absolutely predatory, before he leans in and trails his lips against her jaw. "Good girl."

Not wanting to remain passive, Molly tugs on his curls in order to maneuver his head into a better position. Once his head was tilted she moves to the soft spot of skin under his ear, kissing and worrying a dark mark there.

"Molly," Sherlock gasps again, shivering under her ministrations. "Oh, Molly..." She feels a great swell of pride at being able to reduce the Detective to a panting mess, so unlike his usual demeanor.

Sherlock pulls away from her and Molly lets out a whine in response, feeling cold and empty without him so close. It's only a few moments before she catches on to his way of thinking, when Sherlock takes her by the wrist and nearly drags her away from the pounding music and strobe lights of the club, down an alcove to their right. Molly isn't sure how he still has enough blood in his brain to navigate through the maze of hallways, while she can barely hold her balance on shaking legs. After opening a seemingly random door, Sherlock pushes her into an ally, pressing her up against the cold, slightly damp brick wall of the building.

Molly lets in a sharp intake of breath at the feeling of the bricks against her back. She is long past caring about the chill and the light shower of rain that is reminiscent of the hard downpour from earlier when Sherlock's hands are on her again, trailing under the thin, too-sparkly club shirt she is wearing, tickling her chilled skin.

An almost painful throb of arousal courses through Molly, shooting up and down her spine, causing her toes to curl. She hooks a bare leg around him, skin sliding against the smooth fabric of his trousers, causing her tight skirt to ride up her thighs while Molly grinds into the hard bulge of Sherlock's cock. They aren't perfectly aligned, not really, but it is close enough to cause torturous jolts of pleasure sparking through Molly, and a long, painful-sounding groan from Sherlock.

Sherlock's hand curls around her thigh, a hot brand adding to the flames of her arousal. His hand trails up higher, trying to slip under her skirt. After a few attempts he seems to grow frustrated and growls out "wider", pushing his knees between her legs in order to shove them apart.

Once he gets his hand under the fabric, Molly is rewarded with those long fingers lightly stroking her through her damp panties. She bites the inside of her cheek to prevent the moan that was trying to climb its way out of her throat, and shivers at the sparks and jolts from the simple touch on her labia.

She's breathing harder now, trying to get some sort of grip on the building to keep herself steady. Molly hardly trusts her legs at this point, not when Sherlock's fingers are.. oh God, _oh God_, he's pushed her panties to the side and his fingers are stroking the sides of her clit and she's trying really hard to keep quiet, but it's getting more difficult by the second.

"You're so wet," Sherlock whispers in her ear, slipping one finger inside of her while his wonderful thumb applies more pressure to her clit, stroking it. "God, you're so wet..." He nips her neck again, and Molly has no doubt she'll be wearing turtlenecks and scarves for a week because of how many marks the man's put there. Of course, she's quite a bit more than okay with that thought right now, when his free hand takes her waist to help steady her. "Moan for me, Molly. I'd like to hear that lovely voice."

"Oh Sherlock," she finally bites out, allowing a moan to pass her lips. "Don't stop, please don't stop..."

Sherlock slips a second finger into her, increasing his pace and pressure. She can feel the beginnings of her orgasm, her muscles becoming tense and taut. She shuts her eyes as Sherlock's lips capture her own, swallowing her cries as she's pushed over the edge.

Molly comes back down slowly, opening her eyes almost sleepily while Sherlock is still nuzzling into her neck and his hands are rubbing circles on the skin of her thighs. Without the haze of arousal, Molly's thoughts drift towards their original purpose at this particular... establishment.

"Sherlock...?" She stays quiet, though more for the atmosphere than fear of being overheard, "what about the suspect?"

He looks puzzled for a second, that hard bulge in his trousers rubbing against her. All of his blood was not in his beautiful brain, it seemed. "What suspect?"

The urge to roll her eyes was tempting. "The one we were here to watch... before we..."

"That wasn't the suspect."

Molly stops and stares him in the eyes. "Pardon?"

"Well, it was," he corrected, shrugging, "but there wasn't much of a need to run surveillance. Solved the case while the client was still at my flat. It's amazing what people give away without realizing it." He returned to nuzzling her neck, kissing it every so often.

It was getting harder to focus, but Molly's determined to soldier on, "so all this was...?"

"Thought you'd enjoy it. We rarely ever go out for these types of things." He halts his actions for a moment before speaking again. "You... did enjoy it...?"

"Yes." Molly winces. She answered quite quickly there, but... no use in getting self-conscious about it now. "Yes, I did."

With that, Sherlock returned his attention to her neck, moving down towards her shoulder. "Good." He breathes it more than says it, and his breath causes her to shiver, and then he's pulling his head back to look at her. "However, our current location is rather disadvantageous."

A smile broke out before Molly could even begin to stop it. "We... could return to your flat."

Sherlock returned her smile before grabbing her hand and walking to the street, "yes, we could."


End file.
